


Vanilla

by themoonandmargot



Category: Sherlock (TV)
Genre: Established Relationship, Humor, M/M, Mentions of Sex, Parentlock, Relationships 101 with Sherlock, implied sex, may end up explicit?, texty texty fun times
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2017-03-11
Updated: 2017-04-13
Packaged: 2018-10-02 15:16:39
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 3
Words: 2,478
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/10221176
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/themoonandmargot/pseuds/themoonandmargot
Summary: "I wouldn't be surprised if John tired of you by tomorrow night." In which Irene Adler makes the ever-confident Sherlock Holmes doubt himself once again.





	1. Chapter 1

It’s a nice little shop, good for warming up on rainy days. It would’ve been nice to take John here for lunch, but instead it’s Irene who sits across from Sherlock in a cozy corner of the café. Their knees nearly bump together below the small, circular table as they sit in silence. He hasn’t looked up from his phone in the past ten minutes—avoidance, Irene thinks, though she can’t deny how positively bored the detective looks. She brings her coffee to her scarlet-stained lips and sips languidly before propping her elbows onto the table. “Sherlock.”  
  
“Hmm?”  
  
“How is everything?”  
  
He glances at her, then with a click, locks his phone. “Fine, not horrible,” he answers, slipping the device into his pocket. He hesitates. “A bit dull.”  
  
“Really?” Frowning, Irene cocks her head. “Even with your new flatmate?”  
  
Sherlock nearly rolls his eyes. “John isn’t exactly ‘new’. This isn’t the first time we’ve shared a flat together. Might I add he’s a rather predictable man.”  
  
He waits for Irene to respond, but she only rests her chin in her palm and smiles. He scowls, vulnerable— _what did I say now?_ —and then she teases, “I was talking about the child, but alright.”  
  
Sherlock’s fingers, drumming impatiently, now stutter against the table. Irene’s smile widens. “Right,” he grimaces. “Rosie’s a different story. Quite more unpredictable, and somehow more childish than I.”  
  
Irene nods in approval. “Perhaps she’ll be as unpredictable as her auntie,” she says, winking behind her coffee cup. _Fairly predictable then,_ Sherlock thinks, but then he recalls the sight of a very naked Irene perched upon a loveseat, years ago. _Hopefully not that unpredictable,_ he glowers, avoiding the unwavering eyes across from him. Irene takes another sip then rests the cup on the table. More quietly now, she asks, “Speaking of John, how _is_ everything?”  
  
It takes all of Sherlock’s willpower to not immediately rattle off the events of this morning (“well, I woke up with his nose pressed against my chest and his arms around my waist and I’ve never felt so ridiculously warm, especially with him blinking awake and smiling at me and scooting closer to kiss my nose–”) but rather, he lets his eyes meet Irene’s momentarily. “Good,” he replies.  
  
It’s all Irene truly wants to know, yet she pushes him further. “Now, how’s the sex?” she whispers, making Sherlock squirm.  
  
“Irene, I don’t believe that’s information you need t–”  
  
“Oh, boo. You knew this was coming. You deduced it.”  
  
“Yes, but I–”  
  
“Wait, don’t tell me. Have you two not had sex yet?”  
  
“No, we’ve had sex, lots and lots of it!” Sherlock growls, frizzing his fingers through his hair.  
  
His confidence crumbles, shoulders slack and eyebrows furrowed, and Irene can’t help but giggle. “Lots and lots of sex, hmm?”  
  
Sherlock grabs a sugar packet on the table and rips it open, pouring the crystals directly into his mouth. Swallowing the dry clump of sugar, he leans back in his chair defeatedly. If not a strange alternative for cigarettes, Irene would think the man is just sulking. “What kinds, then?” she interrogates.  
  
“Kinds?” Sherlock blurts.  
  
“Fetishes, roleplay, bondage. Anything?” Sherlock stares, horrified. “Not even some handcuffs?” she continues before scoffing. “No wonder your life is so dull.”  
  
Sherlock crosses his arms. “I’m perfectly content with my sex life, mind you,” he snarls.  
  
The tilt of Irene’s head is merciless. “No surprise there, considering your lack of experience. Now I know it’s hard for you to understand humans from time to time, but do consider Dr. Watson’s urges. He’s a needy man. There ought to be something in the bedroom that he desires more than anything. I guarantee it. It’s pitiful, you knowing the twenty-six variations of John Watson’s laugh, but you haven’t a clue what his kink is.”  
  
“And you do?” Sherlock spits. He refrains from correcting Irene with twenty-seven variations.  
  
“Of course I do. Everyone’s. Minus the asexuals. In fact, I can tell you right now that you have an intense liking for the military sort. Good for you, you’ve hit relationship gold. And a prostate or two.”  
  
“Irene,” Sherlock sighs.  
  
“You like playing detective, don’t you? Well, why not solve the case of John Watson’s kink? It’s not something for me to disclose to you, not if it’s your arse that he’s got his cock up in. And so often, too. What, once this morning? A shag last night? And…” Irene squints, scrutinizing Sherlock’s torso, “twice on Sunday?”  
  
Sherlock shifts in his seat. “There’s no way you could’ve known that,” he gruffs.  
  
“Says the man with a fading love bite.” Sherlock reaches for his neck while Irene slumps back and clicks her tongue. “ _Vanilla._ I wouldn’t be surprised if John tired of you by tomorrow night,” she sighs.  
  
With a pout, Sherlock downs his previously-untouched tea. Though oversteeped and completely cold, it saves Sherlock from having to think of a good comeback. He doesn’t remember Irene being this frigid, but he supposes it’s revenge for the humiliation he made her endure before. He finally swallows the last drop and whisks out of the café, sugar packet in hand but not a word on his tongue. Irene glances up from her coffee as he leaves, but she makes no effort to convince him to stay. She’s already done her work.


	2. Chapter 2

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thank you for waiting so long for an update! It's been over a month, WOAH. I'm enjoying Spring Break at the moment, and I promise that I've already started working on the chapters after this one. Love you all!

Irene is wrong. Sherlock is sure of this. Kinks are for the adventurous, the impure, the impractical. While John is deranged enough to live with Sherlock for so long, he’s nothing like _them_. But then a voice echos in Sherlock’s ears. _Lots and lots of sex._  
  
The mind palace shoves all the remnants of his mind to the side—the Erlenmeyer flask in the fridge, the last murder scene, the shopping centre that Irene must’ve walked into for that certain perfume. A bed and its occupants replace them all. Sunday morning floods back, and Sherlock now feels the words pressed against his skin, hot and desperate. _Faster,_ John says, nails digging into his back. _Please._ It’s an admittedly nice memory to recall, but not while Sherlock rides in the back of a taxi. The John that he finds at home is relatively immaculate, and not nearly as sultry. “He’ll be here soon, dear,” Sherlock hears him say upon stepping inside 221B. “Look, there. Look, look.”  
  
Sherlock shuffles up the stairs to the living room where Rosie sits, red-faced and puffy-eyed, among the variety of toys scattered around the floor. She flings her stubby arms upwards and screeches, “Sher-luh!” Sherlock gladly hoists her up and steadies her on his hip.  
  
“Have you been good for Daddy while I was gone, hmm?” he asks with a tilt of his head. Rosie giggles and swats the smile on Sherlock’s face.  
  
“Define ‘good’,” John chuckles, rising to his feet. He steps towards the pair and rubs his thumb along the soft skin of Rosie’s hand. “Been crying the entire morning without you.”  
  
“Is that right?” Sherlock murmurs. Everything about Rosie now would convince Sherlock that she’s been perfectly fine without him. Of all the things in the world that he could analyse and dissect, Rosie’s affinity for him seems the most inexplicable. The thought of this tiny human finding him any degree of bearable makes his chest swell, but he only allows the feeling to exist for a moment, just until he meets John’s eyes. “But enough about you," he says. "How was Rosie?”  
  
John lets out a short, guttural sound to acknowledge but not quite praise Sherlock’s cleverness. His eyelids flutter, a harmless roll of the eyes, and he quips, “Cute.” The grin on Sherlock’s face is too adorable to pretend to be annoyed by, as John swings his weight onto the tips of his toes to meet Sherlock’s smirk with a kiss. It’s too short for Sherlock’s liking, as John steps back and smacks his lips. “Is that… sugar on your mouth?” John asks, frowning.  
  
Sherlock recalls the empty sugar packet in his coat pocket. He could tell John that he now downs sugar instead of cigarettes, and that the conversation with Irene was just the type of conversation that called for a smoke break. Of course he could. But efficiency wins over transparency. “Ah, yes,” Sherlock says. “Fancied myself a scone while I was out.”  
  
“Mm. Should’ve gotten one for me,” John says, smiling warm and bright. He resumes his daily skim through the newspaper as Sherlock settles into the seat across from him. Rosie, cooing and laughing, perches upon Sherlock’s leg. It’s as normal as normal can get with Sherlock scanning his brain for every single fetish and kink that he’s read about. Sherlock feels a pinch of shame, with him imagining all the different (compromising) scenarios involving John, while his (their) daughter gurgles in his ear.  
  
The expression on Sherlock’s face sours. He’s changed, adulterated. Since when did he care about what babies think, or what Irene thinks?  
  
_You don’t_ , a low voice remarks, familiar in its disapproval. _It’s him you care about._ Sherlock glances up to find John eyeing him behind his newspaper. The skin above John’s cheeks creases in a smile before grey eyes flicker downwards. It’s standard, insignificant, fleeting. Yet Sherlock feels it, right under the part of his shirt that Rosie has crinkled in her hand: the hefty thrum in his chest, undeniable. Sherlock doesn’t know, can’t remember a time when the feeling ceased. He doesn’t want to remember.  
  
No, Sherlock doesn’t care if Irene thinks John will tire of him, but he definitely cares if it’s accurate. _I told you, sentiment is a dangerous thing_ , the voice snickers. And it’s right—too right, annoyingly so—because a rare sensation settles into his skin. For once, Sherlock Holmes is scared.  
  
At least for now, he can cross daddy kink off the list.


	3. Chapter 3

At a certain hour of the day, sunlight filters into the flat and hits every glass beaker in the kitchen. It is then that the room transforms into a flurry of color and light shards. Sherlock also finds that Mrs. Hudson makes her rounds around the flat at precisely this time, sometimes to nag him, most of the time to tidy the place.  
  
Sherlock wakes up the next morning (or rather, drifts into the next day) with the weather forecast in mind. All sun, no clouds. Minimal effort. What luck that John would be out with Rosie for the majority of daylight. Watching the wall of light inch closer to kitchen table, Sherlock waits well into the afternoon. He’s been scrolling through dodgy sites for the better portion of the day, and he happens to be on _Jenna Y.’s Big Bag of Kinks!_ when the sun streams into the kitchen. “Ah, Mrs. Hudson,” Sherlock greets at the sound of penny-loafers along the rug. “I'm in need of your assistance.”  
  
“I’ve only just dropped by, Sherlock. You can make your own cuppa,” she quips. She stays hidden from Sherlock’s view, yet the shuffling of papers suggests that she’s trying to make some order out of the lounge.  
  
“No, I’m not… I don’t want you to make me tea. I’ve something to ask you,” Sherlock says, uneasy. Mrs. Hudson steps into the entrance to the kitchen and crosses her arms. He feels like he’s about to receive a reprimand from his mother, or worse, Mycroft. Mrs. Hudson stares, expectant, making Sherlock look down at his laptop. Slowly, he asks, “Have you ever happened upon John in crossdress?”  
  
Mrs. Hudson takes a breath as if to say something, then releases it. “You mean with heels and dresses and whatnot?” she asks hesitantly.  
  
“Yes.”  
  
“Well…”  
  
“ _Well?_ ” Sherlock repeats, inquisitive.  
  
“No, not really. I’ve wondered if he’s had on lipstick a few times in the past, but I’ve always assumed that it was Mary.”  
  
Sherlock blinks. “Oh,” he says. “Okay.” He cowers into his laptop without doing so much as dismiss Mrs. Hudson. The maternal figure she is, Mrs. Hudson senses that something has gone awry. She sighs and walks behind Sherlock, where his laptop screen is fully visible. Sherlock lets her look, though he dreads the lecture that he is bound to endure.  
  
A hand flies to her chest. “Oh, Sherlock,” she sputters. “What is…? Are you…?”  
  
“Yes?” he says, urging her on.  
  
She crinkles her nose and asks, “You’re not planning to make a mess of the lounge again, are you?”  
  
Sherlock’s face heats up. Images of broken bottles and scattered documents flash behind Sherlock’s eyes. A tornado of sorts had ripped through the flat not too long ago. It was their anniversary. “We were going to clean it up,” he defends.  
  
“When? Were you waiting for Christmas?” Mrs. Hudson retorts. She looks at Sherlock’s computer again— _Bag of Kinks!_ —and groans. She turns away, motioning towards the screen with a nod of her head. “Whatever that is, do it in a bedroom. I know you’re a man of science, Sherlock, but please. Leave me out of your _experiments_.” Mumbling about the various mystery substances she had to clean up before, she scurries out the kitchen and leaves Sherlock reaching for her.  
  
“Mrs. Hudson, I still have more questions for you!” he calls. Mrs. Hudson reenters the kitchen, her side leaned against the doorway.  
  
“Dear,” she starts, voice soft. “I love you to the ends of the Earth. You know that. So your feelings mustn’t become too damaged when I urge you to stop asking me about the man you love when you can talk to him yourself. It’s for the better, Sherlock. Communication is key, truly. John will understand.”  
  
“Says the woman who had her husband executed over a bit of opium,” Sherlock snips, watching her retreat to her living quarters. He looks back down at his computer screen. An instructional video for rope-binding has begun to play. He drums his fingers against the wooden table for a moment, then reaches into his coat. He’s made no mental commitments to the possible text for John, and luckily so when his unread messages catch his eye.  
  
Cherry red lips taunt from the other side of the screen. _Do you want a hint?_ one reads. _I doubt you need one. I’m sure John can’t get enough of you already._ Sherlock glances at his laptop, then moves to put his phone back in his pocket before a moan sounds from the device. He winces and pulls his mobile back into view. This text is just as insulting as the others: _Or can he?_  
  
_If you’re so adamant, go ahead and amuse me,_ Sherlock responds, fingers flying across his tiny phone keyboard. He hits send and slaps his mobile face down onto the table. It isn’t longer than five seconds later that the moan brings his phone to his eyes once more. This time, the text pulls his features into a frown.  
  
_Manners, Sherly. What’s the special word? IA_

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I just realized this is the longest fic I've posted on Ao3 to date, and it's not even done yet. *sunglasses emoji* Hope you're enjoying the story so far. Please leave a comment if you do, I would really appreciate it ^_^


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